Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue and presently passed out on to the highroad. As he walked the pain of his leg diminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very leisurely towards home. Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by aching bones and bruises. The reflection that he was reconciled to John Grimbal crowded out lesser thoughts. He knew the other had spoken truth, and accepted his headlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof of it. Then he thought of the possibility of giving himself up before Grimbal’s letter should come to be read.
At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him. She had brought up to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables and a pint of beer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and embraced him with thanksgivings. Upon Blanchard’s mind the return to his wife impressed various strange thoughts. He soothed her, comforted her, and assured her of his safety. But to him it seemed that he spoke with a stranger, for half a century of experience appeared to stretch between the present and his departure from Monks Barton about three hours before. His wife experienced similar sensations. That this cheerful, battered, hungry man could be the same who had stormed from her into the night a few short hours before, appeared impossible.
CHAPTER XVI
A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
Mr. Blee, to do him justice, was usually the first afoot at Monks Barton, both winter and summer. The maids who slept near him needed no alarum, for his step on the stair and his high-pitched summons, “Now then, you lazy gals, what be snorin’ theer for, an’ the day broke?” was always sufficient to ensure their wakening.
At an early hour of the morning that dawned upon Will’s nocturnal adventures, Billy stood in the farmyard and surveyed the shining river to an accompaniment of many musical sounds. On Monks Barton thatches the pigeons cooed and bowed and gurgled to their ladies, cows lowed from the byres, cocks crew, and the mill-wheel, already launched upon the business of the day, panted from its dark habitation of dripping moss and fern.
Billy sniffed the morning, then proceeded to a pig’s sty, opened a door within it, and chuckled at the spectacle that greeted him.
“Burnish it all! auld sow ’s farrowed at last, then. Busy night for her, sure ’nough! An’ so fine a litter as ever I seed, by the looks of it.”
He bustled off to get refreshment for the gaunt, new-made mother, and as he did so met Ted Chown, who now worked at Mr. Lyddon’s, and had just arrived from his home in Chagford.
“Marnin’, sir; have ’e heard the news? Gert tidings up-long I ’sure ’e.”
“Not so gert as what I’ve got, I’ll lay. Butivul litter ’t is. Come an’ give me a hand.”